


At First & Always

by s_BI_cedtea



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Artist Keith (Voltron), Barista Lance (Voltron), Model Lance (Voltron), Multi, Tattoo Artist Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2019-08-19 05:53:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16528655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_BI_cedtea/pseuds/s_BI_cedtea
Summary: It's a big day for Keith, his art gallery in Ottawa is celebrating it's one-year anniversary, and Lance wants to make it even more special.In the midst of his plans, Lance ends up looking back on the important memories he and Keith made over the years and retelling them in an adventure of how his friend found their style and the journey of their lasting friendship.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter is a different memory of Lance's, and there's plenty of fluff yet to come... patience yields focus, but I won't hold it against you if I take too long to update this fanfic.

At first, I’d sooner be caught dead than at an art gallery.

But I’m not here only for the art, I’m here for the artist.

I always have been.

But today is a special day, and the gallery is crowded, I can see all the bodies inside from the store front, bustling about, taking photos where and when permitted.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the encounter, and walk through the open door onto rustic wood floors that mingle with porcelain tiles. Up a few steps to my left on a platform of sorts the artist paces to and fro; the sleeves of his purple, black and white plaid shirt are rolled up to his elbows, his ripped skinny jeans hug close to muscled legs and a grey beanie hangs limp atop his mess of black hair. His slightly up-tilted alexandrite eyes gleam as he speaks, his hands torn between gesturing to his audience and resting casually in his pockets. A paint brush is tucked behind one of his ears, the silver helix-piercing glinting in the golden light.

I’ve yearned to nip that ear of his for so long, to kiss those smirking, soft rosy lips of his.

Today is the day it might become a reality, assuming I get over my fear and ‘woman up’ as my friend Pidge would put it.

Keith’s beautiful voice catches my attention and reels me in, “so, ‘how do you do it?’ they ask. Art isn’t a mathematic equation that needs to be solved; art isn’t an invention that needs to be improved to accommodate the wants and needs of many. No, art is everything that you want it to be—that might be an invention, or an equation, but an equation only has one correct answer, and an invention will never cater to everyone’s needs.

“Art is what feels good to make despite knowing that it won’t make everyone happy, it’s what feels good to you, so, finding my style? How did I do it? How did it come to be? It’s simple. I worked my ass off,” laughter spreads through the crowd like wildfire, “well, to be more accurate, I worked my fingers off, experimenting, practicing, painting, sketching… knitting. I’m not joking, a friend of mine knitted the very hat I’m wearing right now for me and I wanted to repay him by making a matching one for him to wear. We were, I don’t know, seventeen, players in the school’s football team, we could always be found in the gym at the bench-press, and we decided to sit one evening and knit! Honestly though, I enjoyed every second of it and I still knit to this day, aged twenty-two.”

I finger the blue scarf around my neck and smile, Keith’s eyes find mine and he waves casually, long, pale, elegant fingers splayed slightly.

“speaking of my knitting adventures, said friend is here today, and I’d like to invite him to come up here and inevitably embarrass me with a story.”

I happily oblige and join him on the platform, “this is Lance McClain, you’ve probably seen him on magazine covers as one of Canada’s top models—but to me he’s the boy with the knitting needles, too-big football jersey and the one who helped me find my style. I believe he’s going to do all the work for me and tell you the story of my style himself.”

There’s applause from all around us. Just me and Keith. And so, I begin.

 

* * *

     It was late November, almost exactly five years ago, Keith was complaining about the constant snow and how our coach was making us practice despite it. I had just made myself a nice, cosy grey beanie to wear so that my ears wouldn’t get cold, but I would rather have cold ears than listen to Mullet whine a second longer; as a result, I shoved the beanie in his face, told him to shut up, and to wear it.

He just stood there for a second, holding the hat in his hands and stared at me like I’d just given him my winning lottery ticket.

“dude, why’d you give me your hat?” my god, I physically had to take it from his sad little cold hands—which even back then were crusted with paint, and put it on that mullet of his.

“to wear, dumbass. What else are hats for?” I felt like I was babysitting a toddler in those few short moments.

“thanks, but you need it too,Lance.”

I didn’t realise the words had left my mouth, “well, we could always meet up sometime. I’ll teach you how to knit an identical hat and you can give it to me. How’s that sound?” Keith merely nodded and pulled the hat further down to completely cover his ears, then we resumed the drill we were working on for the next hour or so, grateful when practice finally ended.

     It was Wednesday of the same week and my evening shift at Starbucks was coming to a close. Keith walked through the door in the tightest skinny jeans I had ever seen a guy wear, a black band-shirt, a cropped red jacket and black fingerless gloves. He was also wearing the hat I had made, a red motorcycle helmet tucked beneath one arm.

“my shift ends in a few, but in the meantime as a barista, I suppose I should take my customer's order. Coffee?” I leaned over the counter and grabbed one of the large chocolate coins, dropping fifty cents into the tip jar as I began peeling off the gold foil.

“black roast is fine, preferably strong.” Keith ordered the most _boring_ coffees. I charged him for a plain, bitter, roast but I actually made him chai, which is without a doubt the most amazing tea in the world. And surprise, surprise, the guy never orders coffee anymore.

* * *

_“not true. If a shop doesn’t have chai I’ll resort to coffee—”_

_“Keith, you’re ruining the aesthetic of my story.”_

* * *

     So, I handed Keith the to-go cup of heavenly tea, a dollop of whipped cream on top and a sprinkling of cinnamon. My shift ended and I folded up my green apron, stuffing it into a ‘Bridgehead’ tote bag that was filled with yarns of all colours and long needles. A hand fell onto my shoulder and a co-worker of mine whispered, “isn’t he a bit young for an old granny such as yourself?” I snorted indignantly and shouldered the bag of ‘granny-like’ supplies.

“I’ll have you know that we’re both in the same year, and he’s the one who’s older.” I retorted, flicking the shorter girl on her nose. She waved me away and I met with Keith who was waiting by the door. He handed my the red helmet and I looked at it with narrowed eyes, then out of the window to the black Triumph classic that was parked in front of the Starbucks.

“your not making me ride on that… _thing,_ surely.” Keith shrugged and pushed me out of the door and into the snowy city of Ottawa. He slid a black helmet over his head, flicking down the visor and turned a key in the ignition.

To say his Triumph roared to life would be incorrect—it didn’t burst to life dramatically like the race bikes you see at the TT, rather, it purred; the engine calmly transitioned from dead, to stirring, then to alive, the sound a constant and almost comforting hum of sorts.

So with only a little hesitation I slipped on the helmet and sat behind Keith on the warm leather seats, I didn’t know what to do with my hands until Keith piped up, “if you feel uncomfortable or scared just wrap your arms around my waist. It might feel odd at first, but you’ll get used to it.” I wasn’t sure if he meant the clinging onto him in terror feeling unusual, or the way the motorcycle glided over the roads, like a ski on snow, so much different to a car and their jerking motions.

It was beginning to get dark earlier, and so by the time we were on the other side of Ottawa all of the decorative lights were on, street lamps casting orange and white hues while the colourful strings that hung over the roads gave a sense of festivity. The colours were a blur as we rode past, and the headlights of vehicles surrounded us. I was almost disappointed that you couldn’t see the moon or stars, but better yet, clouds hung over the near-black sky and snow danced around us in last flurries, sticking to the jackets and hair of pedestrians who milled about, warm drinks and bags of Christmas shopping in hand.

It was, to say the least, beautiful.

Keith almost had to force me off of his bike and out of the winter wonderland into a Chipotle where we grabbed dinner, but then we were off again, sending my heart racing at the anticipation of a night’s ride through Ottowa.

He took me to his apartment which was more like a house he shared with someone called Shiro and their boyfriend, Adam.

Who had, coincidentally, left earlier that day and wouldn’t be back for another few.

The inside was cosy, a fire roaring in the granite hearth, all worn leather sofas and rustic furniture. It looked like a skiing lodge— there were three snowboards on a rack and a few pairs of boots drying near them at the door.

“dude, were you not at school today because you were at the slopes?” Keith ran a hand through his hair and shrugged nonchalantly.

“I didn’t miss any classes I actually care about, so…” he hung his motorcycle jacket in a closet and gestured for me to do the same. I obliged and took a deep breath, almost melting as the smell of cinnamon and spices graced my nose.

“I could take you on a tour, if you’d like.” I perked up and jumped at the offer, Keith showed me around his ‘humble’ abode. It was open-plan as far as houses go, the whole of the first floor more or less one giant room excluding the utilities, bathroom and the closets that were set into the walls which were either covered in windows or bedecked with paintings and shelves of books. One thing that stood out to me was not the huge kitchen with an island and breakfast bar, or even the huge Aga cooker, it was a dark conservatory closed off with glass French-doors. When I asked about it, Mullet laughed and decided to show me the second and third floor, claiming that the conservatory would be saved for last.

Instead of an attic was half of a third floor, it was almost converted into an open area of sorts which Keith called the ‘loft’. You had to climb a wood ladder to get into the loft, one side was open with glass railing that looked over the metal spiral-staircase to the second floor and the living-room on the first. The loft was decorated with beanbags, fur rugs, climbing equipment, mountaineering skis and poles, more paintings, shelves of trinkets, and a large telescope that was pointed at skylights in the roof which offered a view of the cloudy sky above.

In one corner was a wood-stove, a basket of tinder and logs next to it; in the other a games console and curved TV.

“your friends are loaded. What the hell do they do?”

Keith gasped, taken aback. “don’t you mean, what _we_ do? I’ll have you know, I’m not just some dead weight. I help pay the bills.” I wasn’t convinced.

“explain how exactly you manage to help pay for anything.”

Keith, this annoying, muscular, emo kid winked at me.

“you’ll find out… after you teach me how to knit, that is.”

And so, my curiosity piqued, I was determined to teach my emo colleague how to knit; because of this, you could find two seventeen-year-olds curled up on a  beanbag under a warm fleece toss, sharing their Chipotle order, and watching a horror movie while _knitting,_ of all things, well into the night.

It was well past twelve when Keith pulled me down the stairs to the first floor and lead me to his conservatory, finally showing an overly-eager me what I had been waiting for.

The light turned on, revealing four easels; three had canvases on them, two of which were paintings in progress, the other was plain white.

There were so many colours, sketchbooks, canvases, paintbrushes, drawings… it was a beautiful, organised mess.

I marvelled at the works, both discarded and kept; finished and incomplete. Above all else, they were beautiful in their originality—just there was something missing.

It was unbridled passion.

The pieces all looked like they were restrained by some invisible chains that kept the work tethered to Earth. Those chains were called fear, and I was determined upon seeing that conservatory and the beauty in it that I would help my friend sever those chains. But the present was waiting for me to address it and so I turned to Keith who smiled and rubbed his neck.

“I know, it’s all a big work in progress… and sorry about how late it’s gotten, you can stay here for the night.”

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and started typing a message, reading it aloud as I went, “sorry, Hunk. Won’t be back in school until Friday (please tell the teachers I’m sick) I’m staying at a friend’s place so I can knock them back to their senses. See you tomorrow evening.” I clicked send.

“hear that, Keith? I’m knocking some sense into that head of yours, because you have talent.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> let's add a little bit of angst... oh shi-- didn't mean to put that much reality in. let's balance it out with some fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst with a side of reality for my poor boys-- except this is all the angst for the entirety of the fic so... yeah, don't worry.  
> ANYWAYS I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG TO UPDATE I've BEEN FOCUSING ON MY NOVEL AND,,, yeah, rowing has me out of commission every weekend but that's no excuse because holidays? Hello? I need to write when I have the time as oppose to squeezing it in when I don't.
> 
> oh yeah,,, need I say,,, fluff?

“You sure spent an awful long time describing the apartment,” Keith chuckles, twirling a paintbrush in his fingers.

As much as I hate to admit my forgetfulness, I may or may not have forgotten that we were in an art gallery and that I’m supposed to be talking to almost a hundred people about things that _aren’t_ Keith’s amazing bachelor-pad.

“yes, but I needed to set the scene—a cosy home bedecked in paintings and various pieces of mountaineering equipment… yeah, I got a bit wrapped up in it, I’ll admit. Now, what was the next event?

“well, it was the football team’s winter meeting where we organised the Christmas party and drew lots for Secret Santa…”

 

* * *

 

School, thankfully, was out for Christmas and we had all stopped by Thace’s place after school.          

“Kogane, catch!” the papier-mâché football was thrown over my head to mullet who caught it easily. He pulled out the rubber stopper and stuck his hand into the ball, rummaging around inside until he plucked out a slip of paper.

Mullet, or rather Ponytail by that point stuffed the slip of paper into his pocket before launching the ball to me, smirking lazily.

I caught it and did the same as everyone before me, except that I squealed when I saw the name on it.

_“now you admit it? You’ve denied squealing for years, Lance.”_

_“Keith, what did I say about interrupting me?”_

_“continue, then.”_

And surprise, surprise, I had Ponytail for Secret Santa.

“hmmmm, I wonder who Lance got this year,” Keith mused, “based on that reaction... perhaps Ki—”

If there was one advantage to being on a football team it was that I had an excuse to tackle him to the ground.

So I sprang from my place on a well-loved and very stained sofa to knock Keith from his perch on its armrest, almost colliding with the silver drum kit in the process.

There were cheers as I sat atop him, knees either side of his waist and stuffed my sweaty shirt in  his mouth—looking back I feel bad because that must have been disgusting—but if I’m being honest I was too wrapped up in being outed to really think.

Everyone knew I was bisexual, but most hadn’t noticed that I may or may not have had--the key word is _had--_ a crush on Ryan Kinkade, but the place he held in my fragile, young heart was being replaced by a certain someone. As in replaced entirely.

Pack your bags, Ryan. You're moving out.

“Keith, I’m going to murder you!” I had screeched, a finger jabbed into his chest and the others pinning him down by the shoulder.

Once again too wrapped up in my fit I had also forgotten that the aforementioned ‘certain someone’ had previously been on the school wrestling team.

When his hands found their place on my hips and his knees were bent I knew it was over.

“shit—” and within two seconds I was the one on their back and being pinned down.

Not that I really minded it if I’m honest.

Pinned down by the quarterback—what a time to be alive.

Anyways, enough about that.

Turns out football players can actually plan decent parties and make rational decisions in terms of who they invite contrary to popular belief.

As in only we and a plus one were allowed; a maximum of two pints of alcohol could be consumed, one if you wanted to swim in the pool assuming the venue had one; no getting in with anyone else’s date; no doing it during the party (we’re civilised men, as they had put it); and finally, take turns on the X-Box, PS4, whatever. There was to be no remote hogging.

I mean come on, we had standards.

Anyways, it was with a light heart that I left Thace’s garage and my warm spot on the tattered sofa to a snow-covered street and Keith’s Triumph.

He slipped the key into the ignition and pulled on his helmet, tossing me the one that had been dangling from a grip.

If it had been snowing I would have a helmet full of snow to look forward to wearing.

“ready to go get pizza?” Keith asked, the headset in my helmet crackling to life with his voice.

“affirmative,” I replied with a quick wink.

Mullet— _Ponytail_ , shook his head in mock solemnity before kicking up the stand and starting us off down the road.

Since the knitting trials we had been spending almost every free hour with one another; grabbing lunch and dinner, Netflix and Chills, going to the movies, late-night rides on Keith’s Triumph.

This night wasn’t looking like it would be much different.

We walked into Domino’s cold but otherwise happy and ready to order a pizza that we would share while doing our part for the party: organising decorations and the venue.

Keith pulled his phone out of a jacket pocket and we scrolled through various online shops for decorations while waiting for our order.

We both gazed longingly at the rainbow buntings.

But of course it was a Christmas party, so we continued scrolling.

“winter wonderland, gingerbread house, or elf workshop?”

Keith bit his bottom lip, “I see potential in winter wonderland, but we should maybe try and—shit! Lance! I’ve got it!” he took me by the shoulders, “romantic and magical Christmas getaway with a cosy, laid-back feel. One Christmas tree, rustic feel, rugs in front of the woodstove and decent home-made food!”

And at his house?

The warm, cosy log-cabin home just outside of Ottawa, on Lac Meech, amidst trees with its red tiled roof and walls of grey stone and wood...

“romantic Christmas getaway... sounds perfect.”

Keith looked so happy, and personally I was so excited about getting to organise the party with him that I could just hug him.

So I did, and he hugged me back and I was jubilant.

Wow, my crush was the quarterback, a wonderful artist, Pinterest-party-god   _and_ a good hugger.

When I opened my eyes a man was holding his daughter close, glaring at Keith and I with disgust.

“what do you think you are doing?” he asked.

I was glued to the spot.

I could feel Keith’s heartbeat quicken against my chest.

He slowly turned to face the man side-on.

Black hair stuck to his wet jacket as he glanced over his shoulder at the taller man.

His hands were shaking, and so were mine.

“I’m sorry, is there a problem?” the question was asked in a perfectly respectful tone. There was no bite to it, rather a slight hint of resigned hurt. Keith swallowed, looking almost anywhere but the man in fear for the response.

“you two think you can just grossly abuse the gender given to you like that? And in public? No one wants to see that.” Then conversation was just quiet enough that it hardly drew any attention in the busy Domino’s.

_Grossly abuse._

“the man stood almost as tall as myself, maybe closer to 5’11’’ and slightly overweight with a balding head of grey-black hair.

Keith, only 5’3’’, a whole foot shorter than myself and with lean muscles seemed frail in comparison.

“my daughter doesn’t want to see that. I don’t want her to see that stuff and be tainted only to grow up to be wrong like you.” He stepped closer and pushed the aforementioned daughter behind himself.

She seemed more scared of the words he spoke than of me and Keith.

Keith was holding his breath one minute, hyperventilating the next.

I looked the man in the eye defiantly and grabbed Keith’s hands with one of my own and used the other to rub his shoulder.

“there’s nothing wrong with being queer,” _own the word Lance. Own it,_ I told myself. “we’re just two close friends, as you and your wife are. Even being married, you are still friends; a boyfriend and a girlfriend are friends; same sex couples are friends. That’s just how it should be.”

 _Friends._ A funny thing. A paper certificate declaring a marriage doesn’t change that you are friends.

The label of being partners doesn’t change it.

“if... if you can be friends with people the s...” Keith swallowed, “same gender and be friends with your spouse, why not both?” Keith demanded quietly.

The girl stepped out from behind her dad, hands stuffed in the pockets of her green jacket.

“mom died when I was four.”

I was paralysed, and Keith bit his lip.

“I’m sorry for your loss... what was your name?” I asked gently, crouching down and Keith’s hands still in my own

The girl stared at her dad’s boots, “Al—”

“Ally, don’t talk to them. They’re not good people.”

Keith squeezed my hand.

“Hi, Ally. That’s a nice name, and I’m sorry about your mom. My Okaasan and Otousan died when I was four, too.”

“those are pretty names.”

Keith almost seemed to relax, bending down on one knee.

“thank you, Ally. It’s actually the Japanese for ‘mom’ and ‘dad’. What was your mom’s name?”

“Rose,” she beamed. “mom always wore lipstick red like roses, too. She had pretty brown eyes and fiery hair like me.”

“your mom sounds like she was as pretty as the Roses after which she was named,” Keith smiled nervously. Contrary to what one might believe, the emo boy with at least five piercings and a motorcycle was very good with kids.

The man wasn’t having it.

“you do _not_ get to say her name!”

At that point I was standing and Keith was rising from the couching position he had been in.

A palm connected with his shoulder, sending Keith stumbling back into me. I had my arms around him defensively, but once he had recovered he stood taller, placing himself between us.

“dude, chill. We were just trying to smooth things over and be nice—” I started, only to be interrupted.

“you faggots,” he was frothing at the mouth, daughter standing alone and confused.

“Excuse me, sir. Please apologise to these gentlemen and exit the building,” one of the staff behind the counter said through her mic.

“you’ll _burn_.”

He pulled his crying daughter from the Domino’s and slammed the glass door, neon opening sign rattling.

It was 2019, same-sex marriage was now legal in a few countries and the States, yet the man was the perfect representation of all the hate we had still faced—still do.

The sting of his words hurt, and he had undoubtedly knew that it would.

He called us faggots and said to burn. Only two words. Both on their own implying horrible deaths.

“I think I might be sick,” Keith murmured, skin even paler than its usual ivory as he started tearing up. “I thought he was going to hurt you...” I pulled him into my chest, tongue heavy in my mouth as I swallowed nervously.

“are you two okay?” The same employee who had made the announcement on the mic had rushed over, mobile phone in hand. “I’m sorry, I called the police in case it got out of hand.”

“I think we’re fine, my friend is just a little shaken and feels sick.”

In that hour two things happened: one being the man’s abuse and the stares of others in the aftermath as we stood helpless and alone just because we were “different”; the second being one of the most terrifying moments in my life.

Keith’s knees buckled, and he slipped from my grasp, crumpling in a heap on the floor.

I stared at my empty hands for a second, confused.

The worried voices of others muffled to me as if I was underwater.

“someone call an ambulance!”

“is anyone here a doctor?”

“everyone, clear out. Sorry for the inconvenience but this is an emergency.”

I was sitting on the floor next to Keith’s unconscious form, fingers carding through his messy black hair as a paramedic who was off duty and getting dinner for his family did a check-up and monitored him while we waited for the ambulance.

The police arrived first, questioning staff, the paramedic and myself.

I answered robotically, numb and scared and close to tears. Looking back it all seemed to happen so fast, but in the moment every breath I took felt like an hour.

“none of this would have happened if I hadn’t hugged him. It’s my fault,” I whispered, wiping at my eyes as an officer handed me a blanket.

The nice employee—Nyma, later to become a close friend— rubbed my back in soothing circles.

The ambulance arrived with little to no delay and I couldn't even watch as Keith was lifted onto the stretcher.

I was allowed on the ambulance and sat silently the whole ride, save for when one of the paramedics told me to contact his family.

I explained that he didn’t have parents.

Not having Shiro’s number saved to my own phone, I pulled Keith’s phone from a pocket and turned it on, a fond smile tugging at my lips as the lock-screen lit up.

It was Keith and I in our football jerseys at his place, knitting needles between my top lip and teeth to make long fangs and a pile of blue yarn dumped on his head as we laughed and smiled, one of his paintings of mountains in the background mounted on a wall.

Paint was splattered on our faces, cheeks blushed.

I swiped up and typed in the pin.

2-7-2-7-8-5-6-8-7

Keith said that when you said it aloud it sounded like _Fur_ _Elise_.

And if you look at the letters below the numbers it spells ‘crapulous’.

“Hey, Shiro...” my voice was hoarse, “is Adam there with you? Okay, good.” I took a steadying breath and squeezed Keith’s cold hand. “I’m in an ambulance heading for... yeah, an ambulance... Yeah, that’s the one. Listen, Keith collapsed in Domino’s after some guy started shouting at us for, y’know, being... I think it was a heart-attack, the medics aren’t sure but they’ve stabilized him. He was hyperventilating and his heart was beating really fast... yeah, then he just stopped breathing and dropped... Yeah, okay, I’ll see you there. Bye.”

I didn’t really know what to say. I just said yes to whatever Shiro said.

What was I supposed to tell him?

Hey, Shiro. I hugged your brother because he’s a Pinterest-Party God and I kina like him then some guy started yelling and pushed Keith and then left and Keith stopped fucking breathing for a second. Oh, and the police came. Then there was an ambulance and we never got to share our pizza which, oh wait, the only decent thing to happen: the pizza is getting delivered to the hospital by a friend I made. Isn’t that wonderful!

Next I called my ma, “Hola ma. Voy al hospital. Keith colapsó y no estoy seguro de por qué... bien, hasta luego. Adiós.”

 

Shiro and Adam trailing behind me, I led them to Keith’s hospital room, the name ‘Akira Kogane’ on the door.

“Konichiwa,” Keith said tiredly, flipping a salute,

“baka... you gave me a fucking heart attack you prick.” Shiro flicked Keith on the forehead.

“Shiro! Kuso!”

Adam and Shiro stayed into the late hours of night, my friend Hunk brought oatmeal Raisin cookies and Nyma arrived with the biggest pizza I had seen from Domino’s.

Keith explained that it was just a bad anxiety attack, and that he hadn’t had one for years which was why he has stopped taking his meds.

_“hey, don’t look at me like that. I thought that I wouldn’t get them anymore, and it’s extra effort to take them.”_

_I glare at Keith._

_“I’m still going to nag you.”_

I was sitting with my long gangly legs crossed on Keith’s bed as he sorted through the crusts I left behind in the pizza box and ate them.

“I’m sorry I collapsed, this was supposed to be a relaxed night,” he started, hugging his knees close to his chest.

“no, I’m sorry for hugging you. We aren’t even a couple and we had to deal with that because of it.”

“it’s _my_ fault for mentioning the...” he trailed off and shut the pizza box, setting it on the bedside table. “want to go for a walk?”

“sure.”

 

Keith’s legs were wrapped around my waist and my elbows were hooked under his knees, lean and muscular arms draped over my neck.

The hospital’s halls were almost entirely empty, there were a few people waiting in the lobby, solemn and exhausted. That had been me only hours earlier.

“it was kinda scary, wasn’t it? Not knowing what he would do,” Keith whispered into my neck.

“m, yeah. I’m sorry though, this all could have been avoided if I had just cleared up that we were just friends, y’know, instead of trying to defend—”

“don’t say that Lance. You were right to put him in his place. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, what matters is what really is. And if we don’t stand up for ourselves and the others like us, what should we expect? But... that’s kind of what I wanted to talk with you about.”

My calves burned as I trekked up endless flights of stairs to the roof, Keith’s legs swaying.

“When he... I mean neither of us actually denied it.”

I pushed open the door to a snowy rooftop-garden, the night sky empty of clouds and stars abundant.

The snow glowed in the moonlight and crunched beneath my shoes with every step I took through the garden composed of shrubs and leaf-less maple trees. I found a bench sheltered by a small roof, one of a few like it in the garden.

I set Keith down slowly then stretched my back before sitting down next to him.

His inky hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, the hairs of his cute anime-boy fringe falling over his eyes until he brushed them back and chewed his lip.

“is there actually more to us? Is it just me? I—”

Breath clouding the air between us, I cursed, “fuck me, if what I’m about to do ruins what we have I’ll hate myself forever.”

Keith had this look on his face; bewilderment, joy, maybe underlying fear.

But as I grabbed him around the waist and threaded my fingers through his snow-damp hair and his hands clenched the fabric of my shirt, it felt like the cold kiss of winter on my skin had vanished all at once.

Replaced with a burning heat in my chest wanting to be set free.

I indulged it, and it was then that this really became a cliché romance.

Two friends finally realising their affection for each other after a fairly traumatic experience beneath the stars with a kiss as snow danced around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the angst, but I mean sometimes people aren't nice and we don't want to accept that and might not until we've experienced it for ourselves, so this was a learning curve for Lonce and Keefers  
> I remember fishing my calculator and jotter from the rubbish bin once or twice. I've also been called a fag and a faggot, and listened while others are insulted using those words. I remember showing up to school with a rainbow Fjall Raven Kanken bag for the first time and it seemed like it was going fairly smoothe, none of the girls had said anything and no one called me out but I often found myself having to ward off people who would decide to unzip my bag and pull out my books  
> People can be mean, you just have to persevere and stay strong and my confidence levels certainly hit a low but I promise you they will climb back up, it might just take some time. This doesn't even apply only to other LGBTQ+ people, it applies to anyone. Keep walking (or wheeling) forward and leave any assholes behind to eat your dust.
> 
> also,,, dare I say KICK?
> 
> and because it took me so long to update I busted my ass to get another chapter finished in like 4 hours so you get a double update!!! yay...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party has finally arrived, there's little to no drama and more knitting and accepting friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know rowing, soccer (football here in Scotland), athletics and rugby. Not including a few other sports I do that is my limit of sporting knowledge so if I got something American-Football wrong, forgive me.  
> Also, if anyone gets to halfway through this chapter and is so thoroughly confused about how the hell Shiro and Adam afford their place: it's Nasa. I just had to make them work for Nasa. And it's partially why they're gone fairly often.

  

 

“and you know what he said to me, as we pulled apart? Take a guess, any one of you,” I huff, elbowing Keith lightly.

“he said ‘no homo’?” one of them tries, earning a few laughs, including a chuckle from Keith and myself.

“no,” Keith sighs, dragging a hand down his face in embarrassment.

“he said something about painting?”

Keith buries his face in my jacket.

“yu _p.”_ I pop the ‘p’ smugly, draping an arm over Keith’s shoulder. “and he said: ‘that felt like colours, and bold lines and messy brushstrokes and it felt like being free, I really want to paint it.’”

There are whistles from the crowd.

“now, I know that wasn’t exactly an upbeat adventure, but it was an important step really; facing the reality that not everyone is going to be accepting of who you are. But here _is_ the fun bit...”

Keith grins. I can’t wait to see that smile as something more than just boyfriends one day.

Oh, the Christmas Party and chaos leading up to it really was one, big, wonderful disaster.

 

* * *

 

Pinterest Party God.

Keith was pushing me around Michaels in a shopping cart, between aisle after aisle of craft supplies and decorations.

“ooh, we need to stop by the glitter section next!” I hopped off the cart, taking over for Keith.

“what colours? Gold and silver maybe?” he pulled dried sticks coated with a preservation varnish from a tall bucket, sorting through other buckets containing fake flowers of all kinds to find poinsettias. “hmm, we might as well just get some real ones,” he hummed, rubbing the synthetic petals between his thumb and index-finger.

“we could do more with the fake flowers, but we could get real ones for vases... I’ve got an idea.”

Keith dumped the sticks and poinsettias in the cart, looking at me expectantly.

“instead of having vases, why don’t we make wreaths? We can use the rings over there and find holly, fir, pinecones... all we’ll need is garden wire really. We could even do it with all these fake plants and it would still look cool.”

He smiled, planting a kiss on my forehead. “sounds like a great idea, we could put them on the table and have candles in the holes, too.”

We spent well over two hours walking around Michaels, loading our cart with supplies for decorations which would all be home-made.

We grabbed armfuls of the softest and thickest yarn we could find with the intent of making huge, woollen blankets; gardening supplies for clipping holly and fir; ribbon for wreaths and decorated jars that were to hold scented candles; wooden and glass ornaments as well as strings of golden lights... it was going to be fun decorating.

I drove us back to Keith’s place on the banks of Lac Meech in my blue Volkswagen pick-up, a Christmas tree of around fifteen feet in the back and our decorating supplies in the rear-seats.

Christmas songs were playing on the radio, warm air blasting our faces and the soothing hum of the wind through my roof rack lulling us to a comfortable silence as the windshield wipers glided back and forth across our line of vision.

Snow had a way of blanketing everything in a silence, unnerving yet strangely comforting at the same time.

The silence that persevered even as the snow crunched beneath our feet walking up the tree-lined drive, the way lit only by two lines of lamps.

That silence, I loved it. It said everything despite the lack of sound, if only because it devoured the clouded breaths we shared and words we thought to say.

And so we were content to let our fingers twine together and leave it at that, because the silence left an echo of loneliness that only we could turn into our comfort.

 

“Lance, could you pass the white glitter... yeah, the fine stuff.” I handed Keith the pot of white glitter, an almost golden and iridescent sheen to it in the light.

He grabbed a foam ball –slightly smaller than the ones used for pingpong— with a wire skewering one end and coated it in glue before dipping it in the glitter.

I was busy making the leaves for our giant mistletoe with thick mint-green card and dry-brushing it with paint of a darker green. Then cutting the paper to shape when dry.

By the time we had finished all the more complicated crafts we had exhausted every Avengers film.

Rest in peace, the Avengers.

“but _Stucky,_ ” I had whined, clinging to Keith dramatically, “they so should have been canon... but no. They both die!” it had been months since Endgame had come out, and months since I had watched it in the cinema with Hunk and Pidge. But the pain in my heart lingered.

_“Lance, it’s a movie, accept their deaths—”_

_“you were mad too! Those two were otp. Say it. ‘Stucky was otp.’”_

_“Stucky will always hold a place in my heart.”_

_“awww, I love you so much Keefers.”_

The Hobbit was next and we curled up together on the sofa downstairs with the yarn and needles, knitting away, chatting idly past dinner for which we heated up left-over ramen and sat at the marble topped island.

Two weeks later we were sitting on those same stools, sharing the balcony of the gingerbread house we had made for the team’s annual competition.

We constructed a slightly tilted replica of Falling Water, coming second only to the Weasley’s Burrow made by James and Ryan.

“ _faen ta deg_ , mann. Du spilte skitten...” Sven grumbled, still playing with the sticks of the PS4 controller irritably.

“I don’t understand Viking, Sven. Care to translate?” August purred, waving his controller casually.

“nei—” August reached over and ruffled Sven’s short blonde hair, teal and blue at the tips. Sven warded August off with a pillow to no avail, the latter flopping on top of him on the sofa.

Sven, resigned to his fate, pulled his friend close and patted him on the back.

We had team-pvp matches in Minecraft, the golden oldie that still holds a place in everyone’s hearts; watched as colleagues eagle-dived from Constantinople Tower into haystacks and killed Templars in Assassin’s Creed; Red Dead Redemption II; and of course, Guitar Hero.

A party isn’t a party without Guitar Hero.

In the end, no one had actually drank anything so anyone willing to brave the cold after getting out of the heated pool took to the water.

We ran through the snow-covered deck and jumped into the steaming pool, the water a dazzling show of colours from changing lights. There was a jacuzzi with an infinity edge cascading into the main pool, all the features made with the same natural grey stone as the house and glass railings piled with snow.

There was a moment when everyone just appreciated the view of Lac Meech from the pool, steam rising up into the air of a clear night; the soft glow of snow in the moonlight and water lapping against stone.

Someone had mentioned how nice it would be to have some warm drinks, so after Keith had taken orders for drinks the 17 others crowded onto the underwater benches in the large jacuzzi and busted out the wooden table-float as I helped him make them.

We wrapped towels around our waists as we hustled around the kitchen, reasonably clean save for dishes piled near the sink, and made thermoses of maple-hot-chocolate from Vermont. We grabbed enough mugs for everyone—apparently Adam was a bit of a collector—and served all happily.

In the end, no one had brought a plus-one. Not a single cheerleader or non-team member in sight. It was nice and relaxed, just 19 friends together and having fun.

Sven and August were back to flirting, stealing maple-coffee marshmallows from the other’s cocoa and giving each other whipped cream moustaches.

Keith and I sniggered, remembering a time when that was us. When it was us splattering each other with paint, sneaking snow in the hood of the other’s jacket, writing notes in the margins of paper.

By the time everyone was ready to climb out and dry off, the moon was high in the sky and a warmth had settled into our bones.

We all helped pull the cover back over the pool and put the lid on the jacuzzi, gathering mugs and setting them on the kitchen counter before walking past the giant fir tree to upstairs where there were rooms for changing.

Keith and I claimed his bedroom, drying off and pulling on fresh clothes before joining the others after sharing a kiss in the doorframe.

If anyone had noticed that we had swapped shirts they didn’t mention it.

Game of Thrones was playing on the big screen, volume low enough that it was easy to talk from distances.

Wreaths were hung on wooden posts and footballers were laying sprawled out on the floor in front of the fire, Christmas cards of all shapes and sizes covering the mantel. On the large glass coffee table Cards Against Humanity was scattered, candles flickered in the dimmed light and strings of lights hanging on the walls glowed.

It smelled of pine and cinnamon and fresh snow and Keith.

We had claimed one end of the biggest leather sofa, Sven and August the other.

August let his head loll back onto Sven’s shoulder and gazed up at the angled ceiling.

“nooo...” he groaned, sitting up which earned a wince from the Norwegian he had been laying on.

“Hva?” Sven muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“look up, Viking. It was those two. They planned it,” August said accusingly, sticking his tongue out at us.

“oh, kinda forgot about that,” Keith hummed innocently, pulling one of the blankets we knitted up to his chest.

“I refuse,” August huffed, cheeks red and voice high as he looked at Sven.

“awwww, why?” I pouted, chin on the top of Keith’s head.

“because,” August looked around at the football players lounging around, “I don’t know...”

Keith turned himself over so our torsos were pressed together and looked over his shoulder.

“would this help?” he looked at me; we hadn’t really talked about sharing our relationship with the rest of the team, but I nodded, “I mean it’s only fair since we’re under it too...”

Keith cupped my cheeks and I held his hips as we kissed. It was slow and gave me butterflies, but the warmth spreading through my whole body to the very tips of my fingers had me wanting more.

We pulled away and I smiled smugly at the pair opposite us.

Almost everyone was silent, until Bran started clapping and got a full applause going.

“congrats, guys.”

“James, you owe me five dollars—I knew they wouldn’t wait ‘til spring.”

“Klance is ot _p.”_

So it turns out we were kinda obvious.

“Kiss off! Whoever gets caught under the mistletoe has to—”

Ryan planted a kiss on James’ cheek which made quick work of shutting him up.

When I looked to Sven and August they were both bright red, looking anywhere but at each other.

“no pressure, of course,” someone piped up.

If there was anything the two occupying the opposite end of he sofa to us loved, it was surprising people.

“oh, fuck it,” August squealed, going in for the kill.

Once things had calmed after the ensuing uproar, we began collecting the presents from the tree’s base and passing them around to be opened.

The tree towered, there were no lights on it, no baubles... just pinecones. It had the nice lay-back feel we had been aiming for. 

Keith smiled sheepishly as I was handed a huge square-shaped package.

He got a box wrapped in paper printed with classic motorcycles and tied off with silver ribbon.

Presents ranged from nice watches to unicorn slippers, and the laughs shared by friends could be heard from the other side of Lac Meech if one listened hard enough.

Keith carefully peeled away the wrapping paper, folding it neatly then setting it aside and opened the box.

Inside was a rustic picture frame containing a picture of us hugging on the football field after we won the final between Galra Tech and Garrison Tech; it was just us at the base of the goal at the opposition’s end-line, helmets off and faces flushed after the long sprint down the field.

I was hugging our tiny quarter back fiercely, his studded feet over a foot from the bright green of the grass and arms looped around my neck.

That was when I finally realised that what I felt for Keith wasn’t just the desire for a deeper friendship hidden in rivalry. That the only rival I faced was the doubt as to whether or not he felt the same.

“I always looked back on that and wished that I had a picture of it... where did you find this?” he laughed, hugging the frame close to his chest.

Others were still opening their presents.

I think of round glasses, strawberry-blonde hair and a sly grin. “Pidge.”

“why am I not surprised?” I began ripping the paper from my own gift and Keith scratched his neck, “It’s a little messy... I mean that’s kinda what I was aiming for but I’m not sure if you’ll like it—”

I choked up, pulling off the rest of the blue paper to reveal the full painting.

It was the roof garden— the bench and trees and the city beyond all in black, the shapes mapped out with messy yet precise lines of white paint to add definition.

The sky...

It was an explosion of blue and red and purple, the strokes lazy and eye catching and even though it was on a canvas 80cm wide it seemed infinite like the night sky above us.

Nobody but Keith understood why I cried.

It was for the stars that watched as we kissed for the first time; the sleeping city that heard our confession; the snowy night that held us in its time.

I knew I was going to cherish that painting.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof, you'd think I would have gone into more detail describing that Christmas tree but of course I didn't because I'm lazy


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance gets all gushy over his fiance and wraps up his story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's short, but the next chapter is going to be the longest yet (what happens in it is a surprise)  
> also I'm so sorry the chapter is short, I had to write it in the car :///

“Keith, hurry up!” I shouted, a cardboard box nestled in my arms.

“I know, I know! Sorry _ae-in._ My easel isn’t folding,” he replied, a pathetic whimper following as what sounded like wood snapped.

I set the box down by the door and timidly made my way into the conservatory.

“ _mi cielito,_ ” I hummed apologetically as Keith pouted, resigning his easel to its fate.

“it’s fine, I’ll just buy a nicer one for our apartment,” he said, grinning widely and picking up the last box of art supplies.

His smile was infectious, confetti from the night before still stuck in his hair.

The idea that we would have our own apartment together seemed insane at the time.

Our graduation had been the week before, and the party only a day prior.

As soon as exams had passed, we signed the papers for a flat we had been looking at for months.

It had been the next big step in our relationship at the time and a happy one too.

We were finally going to live together.

It took days of unpacking and moving stuff around before it was really liveable, and with me signing a contract with a modelling agency and Keith selling his art, we kept afloat reasonably well.

Don’t get me wrong, there was certainly ups and downs as in all real relationships.

Keith stressed about financial issues when he was offered a full scholarship to an art school, which I still don’t get to this day. It took a month to convince him that a full scholarship meant free, during which all he did was work to make sure we were properly funded and naturally we argued about which was more important: his health or the balance in our bank account.

Afraid that going on a month-long tour would be leaving Keith alone for too long I almost turned down the offer, only accepting after he scolded me about how he shouldn’t be keeping me from expanding my career.

But even if we argued occasionally, we still loved each other and have been living in that flat for around four and a half years now.

But enough of the boring history.

A few years in, our closest friends came over for dinner to celebrate a huge project Keith and I had be signed on together.

I was the model, and he was meant to capture me in paint.

“how am I meant to paint you? What if I don’t do you justice? What if they don’t like it?” Keith stressed endlessly up to that party.

He paced between the kitchen and his workshop so often that I was scared he would wear tracks into the floor.

But that night, he was finally relaxed.

We were surrounded by the people we love, who will always be there.

Supporting and encouraging—helping us make our way.

And when the night came to a close, as the last of our friends and family stepped out that door, he was still smiling.

“they’re all here for us,” he murmured into my neck, fingers lacing with my own.

“of course-- they don’t care if you don’t think you’re good enough because they know that you _are_. Trust me, trust all of them on this. I’ll be happy however you choose to capture me because it was _you_ that did it. That’s all I want.”

And that little bit of encouragement?

It’s all Keith needed.

That night we left the dishes stacked and dirty in favour of setting to work in Keith's studio.

We went on to make some pretty cool pieces, and eventually started that one magazine about living that everyone seems to like.

 _To The Fullest_ is something I still hold really close, and am proud of.

I’d say it’s one of my greatest accomplishments, except it’s not just mine. It’s Keith’s too. It happened because we made it together.

And it’s helped us grow so much.

I’m proud of it.

I’m proud of Keith.

And to think that it’s been a whole year since his incredible gallery opened, it makes me unbelievably happy for him.

And I’m glad that so many people like you support him, because without you I could never have stood here to tell him how proud I am with so many backing me up.

Proving that he is more than enough.

Proving that he’s wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhh I'll go back and edit it properly I swear

**Author's Note:**

> One chapter down, five to go


End file.
